


I've Been Screaming On The Inside (And I Know You Feel The Pain)

by sasha_b



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Mild Language, Spoilers, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass searches for Miles and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Been Screaming On The Inside (And I Know You Feel The Pain)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rivestra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivestra/gifts).



> This is set between Seasons One and Two.

Texas is huge.

The Republic had been larger in square footage, Monroe thinks, but after trudging over uncountable miles, he’s not sure now. Not now, after passing through a zillion tiny ass towns and trying to stay anonymous through all of them. Not after trying to survive mosquito and alligator infested rotted cities, not after mostly starving for almost five months, not after forcing himself to live through his fucking _feelings_ after what had happened at the Tower. In what had been Colorado.

_Despite everything, we’re still brothers._

He hears Miles say that, over and over, a mantra, a pulsing beat through his brain that his feet keep time with as he walks, sticks on drums, a ship sliding the through water, soldiers marching, feet blistered and bloody and Jesus, he’s tired.

He stops on the outskirts of a town that might have had the name of Olleg Atio, but he thinks some of the letters on the sign are missing, as what in the Hell is an Atio? There are people coming and going through the gates of the remains of the town, and he hunkers down behind a busted out Toyota Corolla, the windows long gone to tiny bits of pebbled glass, the rusted gas cap bent at an odd angle as though someone had been trying to break it off. He watches, his eyes narrowing, the several months of stubble on his face itching (he’d always been so neat before), the constant ache in his belly gnawing at the inside of his stomach enough that he rests his hand over it, the attempt at placating it futile. Can he get inside without the people of Olleg Atio seeing him? Much easier to sneak in and not create a scene – he has no back up, after all.

  
Miles laughs at that; Bass shakes his head and blinks heavily and Miles retreats to a soft murmur.

He waits till night falls, the air in Texas as heavy as anything ( _the Earth on his shoulders_ ) that Atlas might have carried. He wets his lips, thirst driving him to stand and try and see the gates.

  
Two sentries. He fingers the knife he wears at his waist. He could just ask, just go and announce himself at the gate. Or he could do what he’s good at in order to get inside. He can do what he and Miles learned to do together.

_Slip in, slit their throats, get what you need, leave. C’mon, Bass, you’re the best at this._

He’s hungry. And he’s recognizable, as the Monroe tattoo on his left arm kind of stands out – he snorts, laughter bubbling out unintentionally, and he has to duck behind the Toyota, as the two sentries twist to see _did you hear that?_

The moon’s really high before he chances to stand up again. He scuttles forward, from scrubby brown tree to scrubby brown tree, pausing, barely breathing, Miles’ _we’re still brothers_ mantra pounding with his heart to force him forward, no matter that he’s terrified. Fucking hell, he can barely think he’s so trembly. The fuck is that about? He’s Bass Monroe.

He shakes and tries to remember what that means, exactly.

The fear eats at him, forcing sweat to coat his back, to slick his armpits, to make his grip on his knife slippery. He rolls his lips inward and pauses, waiting. Can’t he just dart forward -

Bass Monroe, scared of two strangers. Bass Monroe, ex-Marine, afraid. Bass Monroe, the head of the Monroe Republic. Afraid.

_I got nothing left. I got nothing._

His gut twists and he makes it to the edge of the gates, his hand solidifying on the blade in its sheath, the sweat slowing, and the shaking of his fingers stopping. He’s cold, but he ignores it. He’s been alone a while now, and he’s Sebastian Monroe, and he steps forward, boot breaking a branch, the sentries turning to see him, and he’s on them before they can open their mouths enough to do more than suck in air for a scream.

*

The town seems asleep as he makes his way at the edge of the sidewalk, the flickering torches smoking and adding heat to the already cooked air. The knife at his side is clean now, and he swallows down oddly sudden bile and keeps walking. Something wet tickles at his jaw, and he wipes away a blood splash with a dirty hand.

A vegetable garden, and a loaf of bread sitting out with the trash, burnt, but good enough for him, appears out of nowhere at the edge of a little house. He stops and grabs as much as he can, stuffing the food into the backpack he carries, his stomach rumbling at anticipation of eating something. He grins without meaning to, his internal monologue _see Miles, see this I’ve found_ rattling and he keeps packing his bag and a hand touches his shoulder, and he spins, knife out, all traces of blood from the sentry gone off its shiny blade, and he drops the food he’s been gathering.

_Losing your touch, Bass._

Moonlight shines on the face of the woman, a redhead, and she looks at his exposed arm, up at his eyes, and then at his arm again. He waits, fingers gripping his blade _she’s got red hair, Miles_ but she doesn’t move.

Wind rises and his hair blows; it’s long and curly and he squints his dry eyes, waiting for whatever the damn woman is going to do. Scream, most likely. He waits for it to come and he steels himself for the movement it will take to end her.

_I’m sick of killing._

_I wish I could be that Bass you knew. I want to be him so bad._

_But he’s dead._

Instead she bends over and picks up his bag, then hands it to him. He stands there, knife in one hand, bag in the other, crouched, bent over as though he’s protecting his innards. She sighs and points at the gates, where she obviously doesn’t know there are bodies waiting. “Go on,” she whispers finally. “I don’t feel like messing about right now.”

He straightens and slowly sheathes his knife, slinging the pack to his back. He licks his lips and shakes his empty canteen at her.

“Hurry up,” she jerks her chin at a small well behind him.

He fills the canteen and she sticks her arm out again, the pointer finger drawing a direct line to the gates, his thoughts suddenly of that ghost in the Christmas play that his parents had taken him to see more than once as he’d begged them to.

Funny how the past can slam dunk you when you don’t want it.

He blinks wet eyes and the woman grabs his arm, making him stiffen. “Go,” she hisses, and he stumbles over a stray brick that surrounds the tiny garden he’s raped by taking most of the good things from.

He makes it to the gates and as he goes to slip out, he turns to look at the town, but the woman is gone. Her red hair and wide eyes, gone. The possibility of finding his son, gone.

He blinks and the woman is not Emma; his mind is confused, he’s in Texas, in some dinky ass town that he can’t wait to see the back end of.

_Damn well go, Bass._

Later that night, after he’s eaten three hunks of bread and some mealy tomato, he dares to light a fire (for such a humid place, Texas can be damn windy and cool at night) and sits still, contemplating

_I got nothing left. I got nothing._

_Well, you’ve got me. I mean, what the hell would I be without you?_

that memory that aches and twists and damn Miles never could pull the trigger after all.

He bites the inside of his cheek until his mouth is flooded with the tang of copper and he rolls into a tight ball, his knees to his chest, the now familiar ache and ripping sensation of _guilt_ robbing him of any peace he might find. He remembers being able to live with his decisions, and he wonders where that Bass went. And then he thinks he had done what he’d done for Miles, and for his family-that-was, and the anger and confusion rises and he chokes it back like so much vomit.

He’d been a different person, right? But he’d done what he had to. Right.

He thinks _Emma, I’m here, I’m here,_ and he sees Miles’ eyes that scald the back of his brain and he sits on the hard packed ground as it begins to rain, the wetness drenching his clothing and putting out his fire.

Later that night when he’s woken from another nightmare, Shelley’s face is pulled unbidden from the recesses so deep he’s forgotten how to access them when he actually wants to, and he has to turn over in order to avoid throwing his meager meal up onto his bedroll.

*

He’s been walking for three days when he sees the skyscrapers.

_We’ve been here before._

He’s been following whispers of rumors of _Miles Matheson, I saw him go towards the coast in a wagon_ or _Miles Matheson went back to Georgia_ or _Miles Matheson is dead, I saw the body myself._ Bass knows that Rachel’s family had lived in a place in Texas he’s been to one time called Willoughby, and as he’s been wandering for so long he figures there’s no reason he can’t try and find that place. Because of course Miles would still be with Rachel.

Or maybe he’ll just walk until he collapses, alone as he’s been for such a long time, his tattoo ( _It’s for our names_ ) throbbing in time with the mantra he’s repeating.

“Monroe went down to Texas,” he says out loud, his throat aching with disuse and he laughs, rusty and dry.

He stops at the entrance to what was once a freeway; swamp type land has overcome it, and when he gains the top of the on ramp (damn, he misses Miles’ car sometimes) he sees the city in its rotted glory.

Everything looks melted from where he is; there’s so much water and vegetation he can’t really see any details per se – he can count ten standing buildings, one of them complete with a cupola that points toward the burning sun, still beautiful despite the vines that coat it.

He remembers coming here with Miles after they’d visited Rachel’s family with her and Ben, the other Matheson’s heading back home, Miles and Bass taking a road trip through Texas on the way to a few days R and R in New Orleans. That trip, this city had been ugly and pretty at the same time, and had been full of shops and coffee joints and museums and green space and he twists his mouth as his stomach growls and Miles’ voice tells him to _get a move on, lazy_.

He passes under the rusted green sign that says _I-45 South/Downtown Houston_ , the lettering oddly clear, as the sun reaches its zenith.

*

He fights the mosquitoes as he tries to roast the rabbit he was lucky enough to catch and kill. The downtown area is flooded; there is what’s left of a luxury liner turned on its ass end against one of the standing skyscrapers and he can see flickering lights coming from inside it, but he refuses to approach.

He finishes the greasy meat and hunkers at his tiny fire, his eyes closing repeatedly, his thoughts twisting and turning and he thinks he might burn up, just like a light in that boat he can see leaning against what’s left of the Shell building, eating its tinder until nothing is left but ash.

**Then**

The policemen that come to tell him about his family _there’s been an accident; are you Sebastian Monroe, sir?_ were very kind, one of them taking his arm and leading him from the front door so he’s not in earshot of other people and he can react the way he needs to.

He’s silent when they tell him. He answers their questions perfunctorily, his Marine training snapping to the fore, and they pat his shoulder and express their sympathies very appropriately.

Bass sits on the porch after they leave; he knows he should be doing something, like calling people, or getting in touch with the coroner, but he can’t move off the steps. Night falls and he is bit by a few bugs but he still doesn’t move, his face a mask that is tight and the moon is high before he feels tears begin to slip from his eyes, definitely not wanted, no thanks, man, no crying allowed.

He gets up and goes back in the house, finding the bourbon, getting a glass from his father’s cabinet, pouring, drinking.

*

The funeral is long over; it’s been a few days and he sits at the edge of the markers, bottle in his hand.

Crickets and frogs chirp and Miles’ car pulls up and the other man gets out and tells him he’s been looking for him. Bass rambles and Miles’ face does that thing where no emotions show through and he sits next to Bass and Bass’ eyelids crunch painfully together and things suddenly expand and contract and he’s saying things he doesn’t want to say _I got nothing left. I got nothing_ and he’s sobbing and Miles opens his mouth and replies _well, you got me. I mean, what the hell would I be without you?_ and Bass finds himself laughing through his tears and he wipes his face with his arm.

Miles doesn’t look at him, but says, “Bass, give me the gun. Before you do something stupid.”

Bass looks down at his right hand. Where had that come from? How did Miles know?

He wants to keep it.

He doesn’t want to live this reality. His entire world is different and he doesn’t know if he can deal with that, no matter his two tours and his military training and he sucks back a sob and hands over the gun and Miles takes it before putting it to the side, his right hand slipping to rest at the back of Bass’ neck as Bass weeps, dropping his forehead to his knees.

Miles just squeezes harder.

Miles doesn’t say anything, but helps Bass to his feet after an interminable amount of time. The sky is dark and the trees are skeletal and changing color and Bass laughs, thinking everything that’s important in his life has happened in the dark, recently. He licks dry lips and tugs the bottle of whiskey out of Miles’ hand and drains the rest of it, his head beginning to pound.

Miles doesn’t stop him but pushes him into the passenger seat of the car; they drive to Bass’ house (his parent’s house is slowly being emptied; he can’t face it right now) and they sit on the couch, Miles turning the TV on to some kind of basketball game and he gets up and gets more whiskey and fills two glass tumblers and they drink and watch the game.

After about thirty minutes, Bass’ head is totally swimming and he feels his eyes burn and fill again and he curses and drops his glass and Miles is in his body space, suddenly with his large warmth and personality and Miles doesn’t say anything but he takes Bass’ face in his hands and wipes his cheeks with his thumbs.

That completely unmans Bass – he squints and fucking _weeps_ again and Miles’ mouth is on his, hard and demanding and Bass lets the other man snatch him up by the biceps and manhandle him into Bass’ shower and they do what Bass had thought about many times, late at night, in the dark.

He laughs as Miles pushes him against the shower wall and he closes his eyes as Miles is suddenly inside him and his bitten nails scratch the tile futilely, the only sound in the bathroom their harsh breathing and Bass’ low laugh.

Later, they’re both wearing sweatpants and Bass adds a tank top to his clothing, feeling exposed and weird and sore and still fucking drunk. He contemplates the half bottle of booze, thinking to drain it, but Miles’ arm reaches around him and puts the thing back in the cabinet.

They stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink, Miles’ warm bare arm touching Bass’.

The sun rises and they stand there until Bass shakes his head and reaches for the coffee and water and creamer and before he can turn totally, Miles feathers a hand over his nape and his lips press a dry kiss to the ball of Bass’ shoulder and he’s gone into the living room, the TV coming back on to the morning news.

Bass closes his eyes, his hands frozen on the coffee making things, and everything, again, is different.

But –

He swallows and he can taste Miles there and when his eyes open, they are clearer than they’ve been in weeks.

**Now**

It’s the middle of the night as far as he can tell, and Bass is walking slowly, as quietly as possible, past a broken down shopping center that holds what was once a huge grocery store and a coffee shop. Coffee, he thinks, and a tired smile lifts the side of his mouth. _Remember coffee? Spiked with whiskey and remember that time in New York when we found those girls at the Bean and tried to pick them up? We sucked at that, huh Miles._

Miles doesn’t answer, and Bass frowns, trying to figure out why, when sudden motion arrests his walking. He crouches as three men, big men, come around the corner of the old grocers, two of them carrying shotguns, one holding what looks like a baseball bat. Bass’ clothing is dark and nondescript (although smelly enough he thinks they might find him just by that) and he blends well behind a stack of abandoned shopping carts, one of them spilling out desiccated husks of fifteen year old apples. He squats and waits, listening for their conversation.

“…seen a bunch of rabbits ‘round here lately; maybe somebody flushed ‘em out,” one of them is saying to the one on the end, the one holding the baseball bat. Baseball Bat nods and points toward the grouping of carts where Bass is hiding. “Let’s go that way – woods across the parking lot might be a good place to – did you see that?”

Bass freezes; had he moved?

The men are still and looking directly at where he’s hidden.

“There – that!” Shotgun one says, and the three men sprint toward Bass’ spot. He thinks – he jumps up and sprints away from them, slinging his pack over his shoulder, speeding up, the moon hanging in the sky, bright and pregnant with light as he makes for the woods the men had been talking about. He runs as fast as he’s ever run in his life (and he’s been in some shit situations, which thinking about makes him laugh even as he’s pelting across concrete) but the men are gaining on him.

_What the fuck, Bass._

“They have guns,” he pants to Miles’ voice as he runs.

“Stop, you!” one of them shouts but Bass doesn’t even bother to look back, his eyes focused on his goal, the thick trees that sprout at the other side of the highway. The lights from the fires in the dead city compete with the moon, and he wonders about the inhabitants of that ass-end ship as he pelts over the cracked concrete. He’s huffing and sweating and his heart is racing and no matter what the men want, he’s not stopping to find out. He’s a fighter, but three men in the dark? He can get the drop on them when they’re not expecting it later.

_Do that._

A huge copse of trees; he surges forward, the two Shotguns and Baseball Bat almost directly behind him, so close he can smell them. He puts everything he’s got into it –

  
A tree root catches his boot and twists his ankle violently to the left.

His face meets the ground, and he bites his tongue enough to taste copper and feels it drip down his chin as the three men surround him, panting and breathing and Baseball Bat leans over him, snatching up his left arm and dragging him to his knees. Bass’ head throbs and his tongue feels thick and swollen and he tries to swallow – he goes with the momentum of the man dragging him and stands quickly, snapping his head forward, butting Baseball Bat with his skull, which makes a spectacular _crack_ as he struggles and writhes in their grip even as the man he’d attacked drops his arm and curses, rubbing his head.

The two Shotguns hold him between them, and he kicks and tries to wrench himself free, but he’s lost his backpack and they get a really good grip on his shoulders and he stops finally, blood still drooling down his chin and he spits, facing the man he’d head butted.

His sleeve is torn and Baseball Bat stares at his face, then at his arm. And then back up at his face and begins to laugh.

The man to Bass’ right slips his shotgun around his arm and shakes Bass’ arm. “What are you cackling about, Robert?”

“Look at his arm.”

Bass jerks and flails and tears at his captors but they shove him down into the dirt, grinding his skin roughly against the roots he’d tripped over. One of them grabs his left arm and holds it out to the light from the moon.

“Fuck,” Shotgun Two says.

Bass grins and struggles and they smash him into the dirt more, mud getting into his mouth as they surround him, talking and he manages to turn over, coughing and he surges to his knees and Baseball Bat is in his face, his porcine features wrinkled and amused.

“Night night, Sebastian Monroe,” he says, and the pain that explodes in Bass’ skull is lightning, electric, and _I fucked this one good, Miles_ trembles through his mind before there’s nothing left but rough laughter and the taste of metal in his mouth and blackness.

*

_Wake up, Bass._

The sun is in his face.

He sits against a burnt out tree; the city rises around him, ghosts that bend and moan, the steel that had held them straight now curved with the power of Mother Nature. Wind blasts through them and they sing with it, groans of metal making him want to grit his teeth until they snap off.

Someone kicks his hip, and he tries to lash out but he’s tied to the tree, and the motion wrenches his arm and he curses and stops.

The men that had grabbed him the night before stand in a ring around him, along with two others he’s never seen. One of them wears all khaki, and Bass blinks rapidly as he realizes there’s a patch on that man’s shirt – a tattered but recognizable flag.

“I guess I won’t have to spread these around,” the man says, shaking a piece of paper in Bass’ face. The words swim, but he forces himself to sit straight and look at it.

_Wanted!_

_By order of the United States Government_

_Sebastian Monroe_

_If found alive, reward offered!_

It’s just words, but Bass’ eyebrows contract and he laughs after a moment, the bright sun hot and forcing him to squint. He sweats and moves his shoulder enough to wipe his face. “United States Government. Funny.”

None of them laugh. Bass waits for the punchline, but when none of the men offer one, he stops smiling and sighs. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Keep this man here until tonight. We’ll get Horn in to talk to him. Barber, you stay watch with him – don’t let him move without you shadowing him, you get me?” The man in the khakis and the flag stares down at Bass, his mouth suddenly twisting, and he squats so he’s in Bass’ face, blocking the sun for a blessed moment. Bass draws his knees up, and twists his hands, trying to see how tightly they’ve bound him.

“You’re going to think kidding after Horn gets here, Monroe. You’re a killer and a psychopath and you’ll get what’s coming to you. Half my family was from Philly.” The man stands and spits, the wet glob landing expertly on Monroe’s right cheek. He sits and lets it drip, a smile stretching his lips as the man stares at him, then shakes his head.

“Don’t let him out of your sight.”

The man, Barber, nods and holds his shotgun, standing at what Bass thinks is attention.

He cants his gaze to the stack of papers that bear his name, and reads the whole thing as best he can until the sun moves and he can’t see them anymore and his vision is spotty from trying. He’s hungry and has to piss and the man guarding him won’t respond when he tries to ask questions.

*

Night comes and with it fires all over the city spring up. Bass watches as husks of broken buildings come to life, and he wonders why they haven’t killed him yet if they hate him so much.

The fucking tower. The bombs.

_My fault, Miles. Right?_

_Not my fault. My power was stolen from me. If you’d only trusted me, if you hadn’t left me alone._

His stomach twists, but not from hunger. The tattoo on his arm stands out even with only the moon to light it, and he lets a sound loose like an animal that’s caught in a trap. He draws his knees to his chest and leans against the tree, watching the flickering light that’s high up in the air; it can only be from that crazy abandoned ship.

When they let him pee he sways as he stands, but the guard straps the ropes back around his wrists so fast he can barely wipe his hands on his pants. They march him back to the tree and strap him to it, and he laughs crazily, his arms asleep, his booted feet crackling in the fucking trash that litters what used to be a sidewalk.

A different man keeps watch.

Bass tries not to sleep, wanting to puzzle out the papers and the _US Government_ but he wavers and he’s so damn tired and everything hurts and he’s alone and fuck Miles! and fuck the fucking Matheson’s and Rachel especially and he sucks in a breath and lets out a sob and the man watching him barely even spares him a glance. What if he can get out of here, and what if he can find Miles and make things right – maybe he is up near where Rachel’s dad lived. Maybe he’s still closer to Colorado – maybe Miles is here in what used to be Houston and maybe he’ll swoop in, butchering everyone and letting Bass loose and maybe he’ll hand Bass a gun and they can take out these assholes and figure out the mystery of the Wanted paper together. And then they can go and find his son.

Jesus.

Bass sleeps with that thought racing through his mind; he thinks of Emma too, and his son – he starts awake with wet eyes at the sound of a gurgle that reminds him of a baby’s cry, insistent and moist. The moon is high but just a sliver and he squints through the tears he hadn’t meant to cry while sleeping and someone’s at his back, small strong hands and suddenly he’s free.

He leaps to his feet, extremities tingling, and backing up, steps in something soft and yielding and falls to his ass over it, hands flailing, the person that had helped him lunging forward, grabbing for him.

He is tangled in unmoving limbs and he can smell the blood before he can see it.

“Here,” the hand that reaches for him is small and slender. And holds a knife that he takes before grasping the digits and hauling himself to his feet, ass damp with viscous fluid and boots scrabbling on the muddy ground. He lets go of the hand and the woman that had allowed him to steal her food back in Olleg Atio steps into what little light there is from the moon and the fires. Her red hair is tied back and her face is white, although two spots of color stain her cheeks high up.

“Get out of here,” she bites off before he can say anything. “More of them are coming.”

Three dead men lay on the ground, and the knife he’s now holding is slick with blood. His eyebrows compress and she hands him his abandoned bag and one of the revolvers the men must have been carrying. “They’ll be here any minute. You don’t want to be here, trust me.”

He can’t move; shock invades his body and he begins to shake uncontrollably – Miles shouts at him _Run, Bass_ just like he had before, but Bass can’t move and the woman pushes at him. He stumbles over his feet and tries to turn to her, questions on his face, his eyes burning and his brain tumbling and she snarls, “idiot, go,” at him, but he can’t resist.

“What the hell,” he gets out, and she grabs his arm and they run in the direction of the fires that burn high up, voices coming closer to where the bodies now lay as they move. “You just don’t want to be here,” the woman answers, panting. “Come on.”

They run.

Voices pass them as they crouch behind what’s left of the ancient Subway Sandwich Shop on the corner of Main and Travis, and Bass follows the woman silently – he really can’t do anything else.

They run for what seems like hours.

They stop at the edge of another crumbling freeway, this one pointing northwest. Hiding behind burnt out cars, Bass and the woman watch as row after row of troops dressed in khakis and wearing identical patches of US flags cross into the city, the last of the men seated in a horse drawn cart, one of them white haired and wearing a black suit – the other men in the cart seem to hold him in reverence as they all sit as far away from him as possible. The dawn is approaching, and the group passes after about ten minutes, Bass’ knees aching from the squatting they’re doing.

Finally the sound of the men passes.

Dawn comes and the woman turns to him, her face blank, a few spots of blood decorating her nose. Bass wants to wipe them off, but he sheathes the knife she’s given him and shoves the gun into the waistband of his pants instead, and re-shoulders his pack. He narrows his bright eyes and wonders if he might go insane today, or perhaps tomorrow after he’s passed through this city – there’s too much he can’t understand and a rough laugh bursts through his dry lips, and he has to lean his hands on his knees to keep from falling down.

_Kill or be killed. Protect my family._

_Miles – we’re still brothers, right? Miles?_

He’s the one that’s always in control. Not the other way around.

“There’s more of them coming. And they want you, and some other people. So go, out of Texas totally. There’s nothing for you here, anyway.”

She looks behind her and the sun sets her hair on fire, and Bass has to close his eyes, the overlapping image of Emma, alive and dead in his arms, threatens to make him vomit. Until he thinks of Miles and the ever present _what the hell would I be without you?_ rears its head and he sways again, nausea his new best friend and his nerves tingle and he leans against the husk of the car –

“Get the fuck out of Texas. They are everywhere. And they all know your name and basically what you look like, so go.”

“Why do you care?” His voice is heavy with bitterness and confusion and he wants to spin in a circle; perhaps that might help to put his brain back to rights. He knew things, before. Even a few weeks before this. Now, he knows nothing, can figure out nothing, has nothing and he feels faint as she pushes at his back, sending him stumbling toward the now empty freeway.

“I’m tired, General Monroe,” she spits at him, the vehemence strange and he arches his right eyebrow; he isn’t used to be called that anymore. “Get out of here, before I change my mind about keeping you alive.”

The sun has risen enough that he can’t really see her face anymore, and she slips away from him, behind the twisted cars and he watches, biting his lip and shielding his eyes as she leaves him there, a gun and a knife and a pack with a bit of food in it his only possessions.

_I mean, what the hell would I be without you?_

He laughs, a barking thing that rips from his stomach and tears what’s left of his brain in two.

“Fuck if I know, Miles,” he laughs again, and turns and puts one booted foot in front of the other, turning his back on Houston and heading toward the place he’d come from just recently.

Back to the Plains Nation, and back to Colorado and back to the Tower – maybe the Matheson’s are still there, and maybe he can get some answers. Why had he left anyway? Why had he left – why had Miles left?

He trudges for hours without stopping, the marching refrain of his best friend’s voice in his head to keep him company.

*

It takes him longer to cross Texas than he’d thought it would this time, although he’s skirting major towns and traveling mostly at night. He’s seen fifteen more of those Wanted posters with his name on them, fifteen reminders of what he is and what he has to forget if he really wants to be something different.

Why, though? And why can’t he still be Sebastian Monroe, head of the Monroe militia and be forgiven? What has he done wrong, really?

Why is it so wrong to love your friends so much you’d die for them? That you’d kill for them? Wouldn’t Miles have done the same for him? Bass shivers and keeps walking, his feet keeping time with the mantra that echoes through his veins and skin.

The third week out, almost to the border, he misses being caught by about five feet when a patrol of “Patriots,” or so he hears they’re called, cross near him as he’s trying to sleep. He’s taken to hiding in trees during the day, trussing himself to a branch so he doesn’t fall out when he falls asleep. The sound of the men’s talking had been the only thing that had saved him. He watches them walking below him, hands clenched on the branch, eyes narrowed, dirty sweaty clothing constricting him, making him rub at his neck. The collar of his shirt digs into his skin and he spits to the side the moment the men have passed. He is dizzy and _I would have jumped them. I should have. I can’t._ ripples inside until he’s ready to throw up.

He crosses into the Plains Nation the nearest to a big town he’s been since he’d left Houston, and the amount of people makes him edgy and worried and the drumming in his brain is insistent and loud and

_Bass, the whole family?_

_I had to teach them a lesson, Miles. They hurt my family? I hurt theirs. Plain and simple, brother. It’s done. You’re safe and anyone thinking about doing something like that again will think twice, right?_

_There were two kids, Bass._

_…I know._

_What the hell is wrong with you?_

_What do you mean?_

_Jesus Christ, Bass. We’re militia, yeah. But part of that is to bring order through chaos, or at least it used to be. How is this a good thing? How is pure intimidation a good tactic?_

_Are you kidding, Miles? Coming from you that’s total hypocrisy._

_I don’t…I haven’t deliberately killed anyone like –_

_Don’t even say it. You fucking liar._

_Bass. We need to talk about this._

_No, we don’t._

rips him up and he doubles over, his arm aching where the tattoo sits and he manages to stumble to his feet and walk the few more hours to a safe copse of trees where he can camp for the night.

Colorado is dark and quiet and he risks building a fire; he fishes in his pack for whatever food is left and drags a wrinkled apple out, holding it. He sets it down and looks at his arm, the tattoo stark and black against his skin and he snatches a burning branch from the fire and before he can chicken out, he presses the makeshift branding iron to the tattoo.

The scream that bursts from him shatters his ears but he keeps the flame pressed to his arm – the tattoo bubbles and blisters and he screams again but doesn’t move.

When it’s totally gone, disappeared into crispy, weeping skin, he drops the stick and falls to his side, the moon high, the pain in his arm so intense as to be ice, freezing and burning and he lays there until the moon disappears, the noise he’d made as loud and broken as the scream he’d let go when his family had been taken from him the first time.

*

**New Vegas**

The sign is garish and peeling and Bass slings his bag over his shoulder, the pain in his arm slight and he ignores it. His beard has grown in and he’s scruffy and tough looking and dirty and he really hopes no one will recognize him. He doesn’t think they will – it’s been 6 months since the bombs dropped and people have moved on.

Like him. He’s got nothing left. He’s got nothing except the clothes on his back and his meager food in his pack and a chance to wipe the slate damn well clean and he waits, hesitating at the sordid gate – waiting, listening, his eyes slipping closed briefly –

Nothing. He cocks his head and still _nothing_ and he moves beyond the crush of people crowding the entrance and slides into the mass of humanity, one more blank looking man in a group of blank looking people.

The moon is a sliver and it’s hot and he sweats as he looks around, smelling carnival smells and hearing raucous and lurid talk and this place is perfect, the ideal place to disappear. He takes his time, wandering the length of the place, looking, seeing what there is – how easy it will be for him to slip into anonymity, and he looks to his left about half way down the midway –

There.

He jerks the hand lettered sign off the tent it’s tacked to and finds the proprietor, a greasy looking little man that cocks a wild eyebrow at Bass as he approaches and sticks the sign in his face.

*  
Night after night it’s the same. Fight, drink, fight again, drink more, fight, take a girl back to his trailer, fight, sleep.

No voices any more. No heartbeat that races, no worries, no thoughts of finding anyone, no pain, no crying or laughing, no thoughts of the Republic and what it meant – means – to him. Just fighting and blood and sweat and nameless girls (sometimes men with dark hair) and drink, lots and lots of drink.

Sometimes late at night when his trailer becomes too oppressive Bass – Jimmy – stumbles outside with his bottle of whatever and stares at the moon and sky and listens, just for a few moments, as the mosquitoes bite him and sweat slicks his back and upper lip and he waits, silent, watching, listening.

He can’t hear Miles anymore.

He can barely hear his own heartbeat. He hasn’t thought of the Tower or what happened there in several weeks and when it threatens to come up, he goes and finds another bout and slams that shit down quick.

But there are those nights…he misses the voice, the cadence, the worry about being a good person again, the idea that he can change _if_ he can find Miles and make things right. If he can do what he had tried to do a few months ago and had fixed things.

Now, that’s not a possibility. It’s not a remote thought, because when he finds himself going there – he shudders in the warm wind and slugs back his drink and finds his way back inside, silence and oppressive humidity his companions now. For six months – a little more, really – he’d tried. He’d fished for _Bass_ in the midst of Monroe and had almost, almost found him. Had had dreams of Emma, his missing son, and the worst thing of all, Shelley and his lost baby. _That_ had nearly done him in, but he’d kept on, because if he could find Miles and put that to rights, could make Miles explain everything, the rest of the wrongs might find a place in him that wasn’t a cold black box and he might have been able to reconcile with the memories of the shit awful times and maybe he could find his son and just maybe he could forgive and –

Nothing, now.

He stumbles back inside, rubbing at the scarring where his tattoo had been, and does not see the blonde girl watching him from the shadows, the crossbow she carries hooked over her shoulder, creating a humped shadow from the torches that litter the campground.

He doesn’t see anything except black, and the inside of his eyelids.

Dawn comes and with it the beginning of another day in the Plains Nation, and another day of Jimmy and _not Bass_ and he rolls over, eyes blinking open, and for one heart stopping second he hears _we’ve been brothers our whole lives, Bass_ and tears rush to his eyes but it’s gone and he gets up and kicks the empty vodka bottle under his cot and rises to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> I used the idea of Bass' name being on one of the "wanted" posters in hopes that Rachel wasn't the only one the Patriots were looking for (aside from the fact it's a really cool idea). Also based on released photos from season two promo shoots. I also wanted to use the Patriots as a way to set up the sinister elements in regards to them alluded to on the show.
> 
> I am sure Bass didn't wander as far as I make him here; however I wanted him to go a long physical distance as he goes a long mental distance while he's looking for Miles and trying to rediscover himself. I worry a bit about him seeming too soft here, but this is a Bass that's lost everything he's known for the past 15 years, and I wanted to show how he might have ended up as broken and where he was (inside) at the beginning of season two. I also liked the idea of his separation from Miles being complete in thought as well as in person.
> 
> I stole some of the ideas of broken down Houston from Justin Cronin and The Passage, which I adore. Apologies to him. Plus I am from Texas, so I can. :)
> 
> All dialogue from Revolution is copyright its respective author.
> 
> The title of this piece comes from Evanescence's song The Change.
> 
> I really enjoyed exploring this time in the mythos, and I hope it makes sense.


End file.
